


Candied Apples and Ferris Wheels

by apple_pi



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, McShep - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-14
Updated: 2009-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John only <i>thinks</i> ferris wheels are his favorite ride at the carnival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candied Apples and Ferris Wheels

John tastes of candied apple, sticky and sugary, a sweet taste, addictive and innocent. The repetitive catch of John's breath and his quick, hungry tongue are startlingly obscene, contrasted with that chaste flavor. Rodney tries to lick it out of John's mouth, pressing tight to him, hands roaming, curious and busy. Swell of bicep _here_, bony wing of collarbone _here_, flat, barely curving striations of ribs _here_ \- all easily felt under the worn, thin cotton of John's t-shirt. Rodney pins John against the trailer wall - dirty aluminum, dull in these shadows, behind and beyond the noisy midway - and slides his hand lower, down the softer curve of belly to jeans. Stiff bump of button and zipper placket, and ah, there it is: John's erection, a thick ridge, tight down his thigh, trapped in denim, barely covered by the loose shirt.

"Fuck," John mutters, hands opening and closing on Rodney's arms. "Asshole."

Rodney's been groping him all afternoon, all evening. He untucked John's shirt with a casual yank as they walked across the dry, broken grass of the parking lot toward the carnival; dragged his hand rough and careless across the front of John's jeans when they sat down in the roller coaster car. In the house of mirrors he blocked John's body with his own just long enough to grab and squeeze; looked away from John's shocked, blank expression to see him flush and go flustered in a hundred bright reflections. In the House of Horrors he very nearly got John off, rubbing furiously along his length, sucking eagerly at his neck, jaw, mouth as John tried to shove him away, drag him closer, whispering curses and imprecations when he wasn't trying to swallow Rodney's tongue.

And now John's panting against him, grabbing Rodney's head and attacking his mouth as though only this will satisfy the aggressive desire Rodney's been fanning in him for hours. "Unzip me, fuck," John hisses, pushing his hips against Rodney's groping, greedy hand. "Come _on_, McKay."

"I like seeing you hard in your pants," Rodney says, low and sharp, and it's true: he loves seeing the evidence of John's arousal outlined so clearly in fabric, straining, wanting. "I'm going to make you come just like this," Rodney says.

"Don't you dare," John grates into his mouth.

Rodney slides to his knees - a quick look around confirms that they've come far enough that no one will wander up, and it's late besides, children and families gone home, the darker attractions of the carnival (freak show, burlesque tent) coming into their own now.

He unzips John's jeans, reaches in and slides his fingers around his length, threadbare boxers still between his hand and John's skin. "God, yeah," Rodney says, excited and dizzy with want; he lifts John's cock until it's pointing upward, still trapped in cotton, then leans in to mouth at it through the boxers. John smells of sweat and dust, salt and soap, and when Rodney closes his teeth (gently, gently) and his lips around the head of John's cock and sucks, hard, through the fabric, he's rewarded with a new taste, a new smell: sharp brackish tang of precome as John shudders and thrusts forward. His hands bracket Rodney's skull, and he's demanding that Rodney suck him, _suck it, get me out, fucking take it, Rodney, you _asshole_, goddammit don't you make me come in my pants_. His voice is a sharp, delirious whisper, sibilant and angry; his thighs are shaking.

Rodney balances with one hand just above John's knee, reaching up with the other to rub his palm up and down the length of John's cock. With every (rough, insistent) stroke, John's breathing hitches, his angry, muttered soliloquy splintering into harsh gasps as Rodney sucks hard at the tender place just beneath the head of his cock. John's boxers are wet and clinging with spit and precome, transparent to Rodney's avid, seeking tongue, revealing every vein and ridge of John's long, slender cock to be tasted, licked, sucked. John's thin fingers are wrapped around the sides of Rodney's head, holding him still as he pants and grinds forward in short, sharp jerks, pressing Rodney's face into his crotch.

Rodney feels the big muscles in John's thighs tauten, even as his breathing goes erratic and he chokes out _Fuck, fuck, oh, fuck_ in an irritated, dazed whisper. Rodney's free hand abandons John's knee so he can rub frantically at his own length through his trousers, reckless and rough. Rodney's mouth tightens over the head of John's cock and he sucks hard, feeling the minute twitch as it pulses again and again. The sudden, thick wet through the boxers is insanely hot; Rodney feels dizzy with it, light-headed. He yanks the elastic waistband of the boxers down with two fingers and gets the last slow spurt of come right on his tongue, licking at the head of John's cock. The sudden salt-bland taste of bare skin and semen is shocking, a profligate intimacy, and Rodney seeks out more, sucking away most of John's come in a greedy, unexpected surge of lust. Rodney squeezes the head of his own cock hard, eyes clenched shut, desperate.

"Fucker," John sighs, going lax against the wall of the trailer; his hands loosen, patting half-irritably, half-affectionately at Rodney's head. "You're such an asshole. I ought to make you come in _your_ pants."

Rodney presses his face to John's belly, gasping out his completion, squeezing his shaft through his jeans as he shudders and comes, trembling. "Too late," he manages half a minute later, voice shaky against John's hairy skin. "We're a matched set."

John's startled huff of laughter makes Rodney open his eyes; a moment later he's standing, hauled unsteadily up by John and leaning against him. John's hands fumble at his own jeans, pulling his boxers back into place and buttoning up. He kisses Rodney lazily, cupping between his legs to feel the (now weird and already slightly uncomfortable) wet squish where Rodney came into his own jeans. "Hope your t-shirt's long enough," John mumbles into Rodney's mouth. Rodney sucks at John's lower lip, kisses the corner of his mouth (tastes candied apple again) and draws back, looking around to make sure there were no witnesses. When he's sure the coast stayed clear, his eyes come back to John.

"Of course it is," he says. "How do you think I was doing, watching you walk around with a hard-on for four hours?"

"Oh, and whose fault was that?" John asks, rolling his eyes. "Come on, let's go find the bathrooms."

"Let's just go home," Rodney says. He means for it to be an order, but a too-recent orgasm, not to mention the still-tangible evidence of John's come in his mouth, make it come out more as a sated, plaintive suggestion.

John smiles, mouth curving up on one side in a way that makes Rodney's knees want to buckle again - not that he would ever admit it in a million years. "Okay," John says.

They both tug their t-shirts as low as possible, electing to circle the carnival rather than brave the crowds. John bumps Rodney's shoulder with his own as they near the car, grimy with dust and pollen in the humid summer night. "Didn't I tell you you'd like it?"

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, the ferris wheel wasn't my favorite part. Sorry."

"I think I have a new favorite ride, too," John says with a sleepy grin.

"No doubt," Rodney retorts, but he brushes the back of his hand across the back of John's before he walks around to the passenger side door, and John's small, happy smile isn't quite invisible in the dark.


End file.
